This Be The Verse
BY PHILIP LARKIN
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another’s throats.Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don’t have any kids yourself.
Sometimes you want someone to know that you became you in spite of them. Like, "Look, you had no effect over me." Like a middle school bully, an easily forgotten relic of the past.
This is, however, impossible when it comes to parents.
My friend sent me this today:
why does walking past my father in the kitchen feel like seeing a childhood bestfriend on the street?
the nod that says 'i knew you, but i don't think i need to anymore'
Dear Dad,
Trust me when I say that I was really hungry that night. In my hunger, I wandered to the kitchen in search of some strawberry ice cream, and it was there that I found you, standing there in front of the fridge in your llama pajamas.
In your hand was the pint of ice cream I climbed out of bed for. You didn't see me, I think. I might've been hiding in the walls. And I pretended not to see you, as well, except to observe how naturally your eyes swept over my little spot in the wall. I dared not call out your name, to ask for a portion of my ice cream, for what if your ears perked up but you didn't hear me?
I returned to my bedroom empty-handed, and too hungry to sleep. On the bedside table is the watch you gave me for my 12th birthday.
"To keep you punctual."
I turned it over in my hand, and put it in my mouth gingerly. It tasted a little like old attic, and more oily than I would've liked, but I chewed on it thoughtfully. When that was done, I reached for another one of your gifts, and then another.
In my infinite hunger, I ate piece-by-piece everything you ever gave me. I ate the leather wallet you got me when I turned 16. I ate the mug that says "This mug is a hug from dad". They tasted mostly of nothing, and I think I was a little disappointed by this. I ate my glasses, the cord bracelet on my wrist, and all the bad jokes you've ever made. They all turned to air when I bit down. I ate the way you turned into air. Ate your fights with mother, ate the obsession with your career, ate through the way you fight for control. It was disgusting and vile, but I kept putting in more and more, and now everything had conglomerated into a mushy ball, pushing against my cheeks with bits of leather and blood spilling out.
I wanted to throw up — but couldn't.
...
I woke up, and there was nothing in my mouth but the remnant memory of something bitter.
"Bad dream?" the rise of your eyebrows seemed to ask.
Yes, but how can I tell you? We speak only in metaphors.
"No, I just dreamed of ice cream."
Maybe our lives would be sweeter if we imagined our relationship with our parents as a sitcom. Because it's at least a little bit funny, in the stupid, tragic way that Shakespeare comedies are funny, how the universe sometimes insists on having two complete strangers eat food that was cooked on the same stove, in bowls washed by the same hands.
Dear Mom,
You see, strictly logically speaking, I know that I am the center of your world. You have given me so much. Sacrificed so. much. I can see how much you've missed me, so how come I don't feel the same?
Being the center of your world is a crushing thing. It comes with all the expectations, the questioning, and the pulling and dragging of a hungry black hole. But I have my own world to attend to, a world separate from yours, and in my hubris I dare proclaim myself the sole expert on this subject.
Yet there's always, always, the underlying implication that I cannot be entrusted to myself.
"You grow up to be the person you would've felt safe around as a child." — I read once, while scrolling on instagram.
When I look in the mirror, it's me, but it's you. Parts of you, staring back at me, crying, laughing, sneering. I look like you, they say, "Children grow up to be like their parents."
God... I hope not.
But despite my best efforts, I can never get too far away from you. I'm overbearing, just as you are; prideful, confident, indignant when wronged but lack the skills to fix it; liked, but not loved.
I think I blame you for my faults. And maybe it is your fault (how could it be mine? I was just a child).
...*sigh*...
Maybe I'll never forgive you... Maybe if you starting asking me questions without an expectation of what you want the answer to be, I'll forgive you... But maybe even if you did that, I still won't.
It's like there is a wall — no, an abyss — between us. An infinite pit where all my words fall, dragged as I am into the black hole, warped and lost on the other side.
And maybe it's neither of our faults. The blame seems too heavy for any one person to bear.
How many accountants does it take, to balance the ledger between a mother and her child?
Many thanks to Lia and Dustin for draft reading this post.